Wood's Wall (28 page)

“Nice work,” Jules said as she hopped over the transom. “You comfortable running this thing?”

“Yeah, if you can navigate.”

Jules used her phone to pull up a Key West map and directed Heather out of the harbor and then west, following the coast until they went under the Fleming Key bridge and headed out to open water They went around a small island and slowed. 

“Let’s scout it out for a few and decide what to do here,” Jules muttered. She dialed Mel’s number again, and the voicemail picked up before the phone could ring. “It’s not even ringing. They’re in trouble.”

“We’ve got to prioritize. If this bomb goes off, there’s no saving any of us.”

***

Patel, Ibrahim, Cesar and Trufante were squeezed into the front of the truck. No one spoke as Ibrahim shifted into reverse and pulled out of the driveway, looking at the house for the last time. He’d lingered in the garage taking the diluted radioactive mixture Mac had made and added the shrapnel scattered on the garage floor to an old steel gas can with about a gallon left. He placed the can in a pan, which he had filled with muriatic acid. This second bomb would easily blow the entire block. It would take an hour for the acid to eat through the rusted can, allowing the chemicals to mix, but the beauty of the smaller bomb was that no one would know if there were more or not. Terrorism was at its most effective when people were scared into altering their behavior. 

The truck moved slowly down the street, this time obeying the speed limit, Ibrahim swerving to avoid potholes. Even with the drum secured to the side of the truck, if it spilled and dumped its contents, the plan was ruined. Cesar directed them to the marina, where his boat was dry docked. Ten minutes later they pulled into the parking area. There was activity even at this early hour as a steady stream of fishermen prepared their boats and left the basin. Cesar directed the attendant to retrieve his boat. Minutes later, the forklift slid underneath the yellow and red hull of the cigarette boat and lifted it out of the rack. The lift rolled to the dock and set the boat in the water. 

“Hurry! Ibrahim, back up the truck. The fewer people who see us load this, the better,” Patel snapped.

“Not a big deal,” Cesar said. “It’s pretty common around here to see folks going out with drums. They don’t know it’s full, or what’s in it. These yahoos will think we’re taking it out empty as a lobster haven. They dump crap out there all the time.” He looked at the two terrorists, “Can you two not look so freakin’ guilty?”

The truck backed up and the four men wrestled the drum off the tailgate. Cesar and Trufante rolled it on its edge down the dock, and waited for Ibrahim and Patel to help lift it onto the boat. 

The combined weight of the drum and the four men all in one corner almost swamped the boat. Cesar cringed when the hull scraped against a piling, leaving a yellow steak on the old wood. Once the barrel was loaded, they separated, allowing the boat to regain its equilibrium. 

“Start it up. Let’s get out of here,” Patel said.

“This is as far as we go. You said load it, that’s it.”

“Not so fast. We have one more stop to make. You think I am on a suicide mission here? We will be well away when the explosion occurs.” Patel drew his gun and placed it by his leg — out of sight to any onlookers, but visible to Cesar.

They idled out of the marina, then, impatient but careful to stay at idle speed. The last thing they wanted was to attract the attention of nearby boats by creating a wake. The engines were loud, even at an idle, as they wove through the boats and into the channel. Once clear of the last buoy, Cesar pushed the throttle down and the boat lurched forward.

“What are you doing?” Patel yelled over the engines. “Slow down. We hit one wave the wrong way and this will be a suicide mission!”

Cesar slowed to fifteen knots. Too slow to get the boat up on plane, it churned through the water.

“You don’t want to arouse suspicion. Any one looking at this boat going so slow will think either something’s wrong, or an idiot is driving it. We’re sure to attract attention.”

“That gives me an idea,” Ibrahim said. “Here, take the wheel.” Trufante took over the helm as he went back to the engine compartment and lifted the hatch, reaching around in the dark hole to find the oil fill plug. Once removed, the vibration of the engine and action of the waves caused oil to splatter out of the hole and hit the engine block. The hot engine immediately started to smoke. Satisfied, he came back up to eye level and admired the stream of smoke trailing the boat. 

They continued their slow pace towards the target, the smoke and speed making them look like they’d blown an engine. Ibrahim watched the other boats, most obscured by the smoke screen.

48

Mac and Mel were prone on the floor, hands and feet tied behind their backs, duct tape covering their mouths. The metal roof on the garage absorbed the heat and the garage was starting to heat up as the sun began its ascent. They watched through watering eyes as the muriatic acid smoked, eating slowly away at the gas can. When the acid ate through the rusty metal, they both knew what would happen. Ibrahim had set the pan at eye level to insure they could watch the tool of their demise.

Their only means of communication was their eyes. Mac looked toward the workbench, unable to see the top of it from the floor, and started to fidget. After a moment, he found that he could move like an inchworm. He motioned his head at Mel, signaling that he was going to work his way there and that she should follow. They both inched toward the bench, hoping there was something there they could use to cut the duct tape binding them. Mac reached the bench first and tried to rise. The pain from his leg was unbearable. He made it to his knees, then fell, unable to balance enough to gain his feet. His leg was throbbing as the anesthetic effect of the coke had worn off hours ago. 

As if the pain was not enough, the duct tape made it difficult to breathe. Hyperventilating from exertion and the accumulating smoke was letting his mind go where it shouldn’t. No time to panic, he tried to steady his breath, his dive training automatically taking over. As he calmed, he noticed glue from the tape rubbing against the five day growth of beard. It was making his mouth itch, but it gave him an idea. He rubbed the tape against his shoulder and noticed a slight pull. Repeating the movement several more times pulled a corner of the tape from his face, and then slid against the leg of the workbench, pushing his face against the leg. It took several tries before the tape grabbed. He turned his head slowly, the tape partially tearing from his mouth. It worked until his neck’s range of motion gave out. He would need to spin his body around to get the remainder of the tape off, but it was a start.

He glanced over at Mel, who was trying the same thing. The tape adhered to her smooth skin better than Mac’s rough face, though, and he tried to reassure her with his eyes as he readied himself. He figured he’d only have one shot at this. If the tape came off the table leg, there wouldn’t be enough adhesive left to stick it back. He breathed in and released all the air from his lungs. Every joint ached in protest as they were strained past their norm, but he was able to balance enough with his feet together in a squat position to spin in place. The last of the tape came off and he collapsed on the floor, screaming in pain as he hit the concrete.

He regained his breath and moved toward Mel. Their heads came together, and his teeth tore at the tape. She laughed as the tape came off and stuck to his mouth. Then they both sat back and took a deep breath. After a moment, the urgency of their situation surrounded them, as the acid etched into the rusty metal of the gas can. They had no idea how much time they had before it gave way; the smallest pinhole would accelerate the process as gasoline met acid.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Mel said.

“You got that right. One of us needs to get our hands free to open the door, though.” He looked at the bench. “If I can get up to the bench, there’s bound to be something there we can use.” He tried to stand again, but his restraints made balance impossible. “Can you slide under me and prop me up?”

She inched towards him and tried to kneel as he stood. Just as his eyes reached the bench and saw the blade of a drywall knife, he toppled over backwards and smacked his head against the floor. 

When he recovered, he grinned. “That hurt. Crap. But there’s a small saw on the table. If we get that, I can hold it with my teeth and cut you free.”

Suddenly the pan hissed. They both turned and watched the smoke increase. 

“We’ve got to try again. Now,” Mel snapped. 

They set themselves up as before and he tried to rise again. As he reached the crux, he felt his balance start to go. He did the only thing he could and grabbed for the table edge with his mouth, his teeth digging into the old wood top. It was enough leverage to stand. He spat out the wood and moved for the saw. It was about eight inches long, a keyhole saw, with a rough, serrated blade and a wood handle. He got the handle situated in his mouth and went to his knees. 

Gas was clearly starting to mix with the acid now, and the fumes caused them both to cough. Their vision became obscured as well, eyes watering from the smoke. Mac tried to keep his cool as he got in position behind Mel and started to saw the duct tape. She screamed in pain with every stroke as he was unable to control the end of the blade. Small rivulets of blood started streaming down her arms, but she didn’t complain and he didn’t apologize. He finally figured out that the saw cut better moving backwards rather than forward, and the tape began to fall away. Two more pulls and she was free.

“Give it to me.”

Mel retrieved the saw where if fell and quickly cut her feet. Then she turned to Mac and cut his hands. He shook them to get the circulation back and took the saw from her. It quickly tore through the tape at his ankles. His feet freed, they both ran for the door and pulled it open together. It lifted a few inches and stopped. 

“He must have jammed it from the outside. Go for the window.”

They both did headers through the window and rolled, landing awkwardly, but outside. “We’ve got to put it out. I’ll open the door. Did you see a fire extinguisher in there?” Mac yelled.

“No, want me to check the house?” Mel asked.

“It’s probably locked. Break a window if you have to.” He responded.

49

At the wheel of the drifting boat, Trufante was staring at his finger, when the wake came from nowhere and hit the side of the cigarette boat. Built for speed, the boat had a narrow beam, longer and narrower than most boats. Great for racing it sacrificed stability. The barrel tipped in its restraint as the boat turned nearly on its side, as Patel and Ibrahim ran over to support it. The added weight from the men in the corner of the boat caused it to tip even more. 

Trufante was paying attention now, looking for the source of the wake, “A cruise ship. She’s coming into the pier.”

“Allah has blessed us further,” Patel said. “There must be several thousand infidels aboard.”

“Son of a bitch.” Trufante stared at the boat. 

The boat was adrift behind Sunset Key. Trufante looked at the resort, guest houses dotting the white sand beach. They were sitting idle apparently killing time, although he didn’t know how long they had. He eyed the small island again trying to determine if the distance was swimmable. 

“We need to get this thing off here before something else goes wrong. You guys got a plan, or are we going to just drive the boat into the dock?” Cesar asked as he glanced over at the two terrorists, both praying. Neither answered. Trufante caught his eye. “Hey, Cajun. Help me tie the barrel down better. I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong now. Can one of you take the wheel?”

Patel moved toward the wheel as Cesar slid behind him. Ibrahim moved forward as well, allowing Trufante access to the rear of the boat. The two men huddled around the barrel, checking the tie-downs. Trufante leaned over to Cesar and whispered, “We gotta go. Jump and swim for the island.”